


Executioner

by Xangonne



Category: Call of Cthulhu: Path of Perdition (Web Series), Internet Remix, Rolling with Remix: Masks of Nyarlathotep (Web Series)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27402079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xangonne/pseuds/Xangonne
Summary: “The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.”― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers KaramazovorThe ways in which one can find absolution.
Relationships: Sybil Cordova/James O'Connel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	Executioner

* * *

Danger was James's constant bed-fellow. The idea of dying was no stranger to him. He had figured that he would always meet his end with a gun in his hand and a knife in his ribs; and this knowledge had become an immutable fact for him. A reassurance. A constant.

Even before he enlisted in the War, violence hummed in his blood with a vital rhythm as strong as his own heartbeat. Growing up in Omaha, his father taught him how to shoot, how to fight, and how to win. He excelled at all three things; and all three things served him well overseas. War made sense to him. The violence of it was an old friend that settled into his bones as he watched the shells streak overhead at night.

When armistice was declared on November 11, 1918; the quiet was more sickening than the artillery and gunfire had ever been. The dead sang in silent voices, and raised their glassy stares to the sky. They followed him home, across the sea, in the holds of the ships. Long after he hung up his rifle, and took his uniform off for the last time, he could still feel them; watching occasionally from the shadows that only seemed to shift at the very corners of his vision.

James began to travel. He was one man among many who returned from France to a country that had continued without him.

* * *

The two of them spent most of their time travelling. After the payday that was Vito Castiglione, James was free to do what he wanted, when he wanted. At least, until his money ran out. It was like falling into his old routine-- move from place to place, roll through small towns with dust on his heels, and gather information for the next mark. At least, it would have been like returning to his old habits were it not for Sybil.

Sybil was as much of a hunter as he was, James found. She was tenacious and stubborn; she had to be, because her quarry wasn't tangible in the same way his was. He hunted men. Sybil Cordova hunted ghosts.

Sybil excelled in gathering information-- libraries, police stations, local bar talk-- all of it was fair game for her. Back in New Mexico, James had caught a glimpse of her expertise, but now he had a front row seat to her subtlety. Every movement she made, no matter how small, was measured and graceful like that of a dancer. Every word was carefully chosen, and voiced with a natural precision to make the exact impression that Sybil wanted. Every tiny gesture was a weapon in her arsenal; from the way she looked up at people through her eyelashes, to the demure way she turned her head aside to expose her pale neck and collarbone. When she did this, she would often meet James's gaze with her own, so he could see the shining hunger and mirth in her eyes.

Where James was a wolf, Sybil hunted like a cat. She charted their way across North America: following newspaper clippings, police reports, even published books at times. All in search of something.

"What are you looking for, anyways?" James asked once. They were driving on a dusty stretch of road in Texas, heading for the Mexican border. He had one hand on the steering wheel, and the other casually resting on Sybil's thigh.

Sybil folded the road-map and looked over at James, her eyes shining over the tops of her sunglasses. "Well, currently we're on the hunt for some chupacabras. There have been reports of active blood-drainings around Laredo and all up and down the Rio Grande." She opened a fashionable leather folio, and leafed through her notes and articles.

"Right, the chupacabras."

"We might need to go down into Mexico, but that wouldn't be too much of a problem."

"Nah, I know a few people along the border. Sybil, do you mind grabbing me a--" Sybil was already in the process of lighting a cigarette for him. She took a puff to make sure it was lit properly before passing it to James and flicking the top of her lighter closed. "Thanks, babe."

Sybil smiled. "You gotta keep both hands on the wheel, after all."

James laughed. The cigarette tasted like sweet tobacco, and like Sybil's lipstick. He gave her thigh a squeeze. "I am a responsible driver."

"Only the most responsible." She added with an air of mock seriousness.

James winked at her, and there was a pause for a moment before he continued. "I meant what you're looking for as a whole. Aside from all the chupacabras, wendigoes, and wampus cats."

"Don't forget the Jersey Devil."

"How could anyone forget the Jersey Devil?"

"Or the Snallygaster."

James sighed. "You know what I meant, Sybil."

Sybil looked out of the passenger-side window contemplatively. She put her hand over James's, and tapped the back of it gently with her fingers. James lifted his hand, and she entwined her fingers with his. The silence stretched out for a few minutes before Sybil finally answered. "I want to know." She said simply.

James nodded, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

"I need to know." She tucked a dark curl behind her ear, and fixed her eyes on the landscape as it passed them by. "I need to know what's out there. I need answers."

James gently squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. He was struck with the thought that Sybil, for all of her poise and natural charm, was looking for the same things that he was. They had both been changed. They had both lived through things, and seen things that nobody else could understand. The two of them no longer fit inside the lives they left behind. "We'll find them."

James saw Sybil smile out of the corner of his eye. "We will," she answered.

* * *

James had returned from the war with the dead at his heels, and an emptiness in his heart. He had escaped death so many times, that he had long since accepted that it was only a matter of time before it claimed him for good. Each scar was a reminder of what he was capable of. Each scar was a reminder that he would never be the man he once was. Each scar was evidence of what he was becoming.

The thing about being a dead man walking, was how easily fear became incidental.

James had returned from the war with blood on his hands, and gunpowder on his tongue. The fields of France had honed his skills: tracking, canvassing, and scouting. Hunting. He had spent his time gathering information and charting the trenches-- crossing no-man's land like a ghost in the dead of the night. He was good at what he did. He crossed the lines, and every time he crossed the lines he returned alive. He was already dead, after all.

James returned from the war, and he found that he no longer fit. He felt like a wolf, wearing a sheep-skin mantle over his shoulders. So he began to hunt.

At first it didn't matter. Being a hired gun here. Some muscle there. Escorting a shipment or two from city to city. Each job was another that should have killed him. Each assignment was a revolver gamble with one round missing. It was a good thing, James figured, that dead men didn't need luck.

Then, he began to like it. He liked the power, and the danger. He enjoyed the fear that he saw at the end of his gun. He relished the rush of blood and adrenaline that came alongside every job. He was good at it, after all.

He excelled at what he did. He cloaked himself in violence and bootlegged liquor because there was nothing left for him in the world that left him behind. The world he once chose to protect.

* * *

The two of them were spending a rare few weeks at Sybil's home in Baltimore. Although, it felt less like a home and more like just a place-- a brief respite where the two of them stopped occasionally between their travels. It suited them both, James thought. He hadn't considered any one place home for a very long time now, and it seemed like Sybil was the same.

"Sybil, do you think of me as a violent person?"

Sybil looked up from her writing desk. She had been taking notes in the margins of a newspaper clipping; and as she considered James her pen's nib remained on the paper, creating a rapidly spreading blot of ink. She didn't notice. Instead, she put the pen down entirely and turned in her chair to face him. "What's on your mind?"

James ran a hand through his hair, pushing it up and back out of his face. "Nah, never mind."

This only seemed to pique Sybil's curiosity even more. She got up and sauntered across the room, before stopping to stand in front of him. Despite her petite size, she owned the space around her entirely. She looked up at James defiantly, with the beginning of a smile forming on her lips. "No no no, what did you say? I want to hear it." She put a hand on her hip.

"I shouldn't have said anything."

"James."

James looked down at Sybil. She reminded him of a dragonfly: jewel-bright, delicate, and a fierce predator. He caved to the glittering curiosity in her eyes. "Do you think of me as a violent person?"

She blinked, and the smile fell from her face. "No," her voice was quiet. "No, I don't think so at all." She put a gentle hand on his arm. "Why do you ask?"

James found that he didn't know. The words had bubbled up from some dark spring within himself, one that he barely recognized. One that he refused to look into the depths of. The sudden concern in Sybil's eyes left him with a cold ache that seized his heart with an iron grip.

* * *

The first job James took as a bounty-hunter was also his last job as a bootlegger. He'd been running with the same crowd of gents, ferrying rum and tequila up and alongside the Rio Grande, when the job went wrong. He was caught in the crossfire of a rival gang and the local Prohibition Unit. He managed to make it into the scrub on the opposite side of the river and lay low, watching as the muzzle-flashes eventually subsided, and headlights streaked off into the night.

He was picked up the next morning, half-dead and freezing, by a New Mexican agent. Victor Decosta.

Decosta cuffed James and confiscated his pistol, but let him sit in the passenger seat as they drove north through Las Cruces on the way to Albuquerque. Decosta was a tall man, with a trim mustache, and a preference for cigars. The pungent smoke was not unpleasant, and neither was the agent's demeanor. At first, James barely responded to any overtures at conversation-- instead he fixed Decosta with a feral, angry glare. He was furious with himself: for being captured, for running from the fight, and for being in the situation to begin with.

But as the miles and hours passed, James allowed himself to be lured into conversation. Before too long after that, the two of them were speaking with an easy confidence. They spoke about what James did, and about the situation he had found himself in. James, having nothing to lose and nowhere to go, answered Decosta's questions; and by the end of the almost six hour drive, they had become fast friends.

"Mr. O'Connel, I have a proposition for you." Decosta parked the car earlier and had just returned from the interior of the Prohibition Unit building. It was approaching evening, and the desert sky burned purple and orange over the horizon.

"I'm listenin."

"Some of the fellows that were... picked up around the same time you managed to leg it. They overpowered some of the officers and booked it off into the desert." Decosta squinted into the sun as it slanted through the windshield and across his face. "I like you O'Connel. So I talked to some of the men. Told them you were a scout overseas, and that you're a damn fine shot."

"What are you getting at?"

Decosta turned to look at James, his expression inscrutable. "I'm givin’ you a chance O'Connel. You go out there and bring those boys in, and you're home free."

James blinked. He looked down at his cuffed hands and bruised knuckles, and a wave of disgust washed over him. This is what he had become. This was who he was. He sat in silence, hands clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles turned white. He took a deep breath and forced his hands to relax. "I don't want this anymore."

James looked up at Decosta, and saw nothing but honesty in the man's face. "Fine. I'll do it. I'll go round them up for you."

Decosta clapped James's shoulder. "Good choice, O'Connel." He reached over and un-cuffed James.

James rubbed at his wrists and flexed his hands. "Why?"

Decosta looked over at him with a sly, coyote's grin. "You looked like a half-drowned rat when I picked you up from out of that creosote bush. You looked lost as hell, and you've sounded like it too the entire time we’ve been talking." He shrugged. "Looked like you needed a break, kid."

James snorted. "I'm no kid, Decosta."

Decosta looked over James, and the softness in his eyes stung like a slap to the face. "Of course you're not, O'Connel. Of course you're not." Decosta opened the car door and stepped outside. He stretched out his back before gesturing towards the Prohibition Unit offices behind him. "Come on in, O'Connel. We gotta get some food and intel in you before you run off into the desert."

James got out of the car and looked up at the desert sky. It was perfectly clear, with not a cloud in sight. "Sounds good. I'll tell you everything I know."

Decosta led the way into the building, and James followed.

* * *

At night, Sybil traced his scars like glyphs, or like they were ancient carvings in a temple wall-- like she was reading them. Reading a history of pain written across his body in a language that would never fully heal. She reverently kissed his shoulder, and James's heart ached.

Sybil Cordova was one of the most dangerous people he had ever met.

Her smile was sharper than any knife. Her words were more deadly than any bullet. With a feather-light touch and a whisper in the correct ear, she could become both judge and jury. (Which left him as the executioner).

Sybil knew him entirely, knew him perfectly. She saw every part of him, and never looked away. Instead, she only wanted to see more and to know more. To map every trace of the thing he had become-- the man he had become-- with soft lips and gentle fingers.

If Sybil asked, he would follow her to the ends of the earth. If Sybil asked, he would do anything for her. He loved her, he realized; and that realization was sharp, and beautiful, and terrifying all at once.

He loved her.


End file.
